Jammies
by Jabberwocky
Summary: Ron/Ginny Weasleycest Goodness. Cute, sad, nebulous. Aw man, weasleycest is so great. Anyway. It's general Ron/Ginny, lots of ickle Ron being confused and that sort of thing. It's just before and the first two years of Hogwarts right now.


A/N: My first Ron/Ginny fic. I don't do a lot of fanfiction – I'm more into fanart, but, I had to try my hand at Ron/Ginny. I have fallen deeply in love with this ship. If it squicks you (though, as a rule, Ron/Ginny is so cute I don't know why on earth it would) you aren't obligated to read this, by any means. I like this, but then again, I am not a writer. Oh, also – "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always …" is from I'll love you Forever by Robert Munsch. Thanks to Delia The Auror, on Darkmark.com, for beta-ing, and to Sparkle, (aka disco biscuit) for being a shibby Ron/Ginny-er too, and to Paradise, for actually starting to appreciate R/G. 

**Jammies**

They'd always been really close-knit. But, it happens that way when you share a room with your baby sister till you're eight when Bill finally moves out and you get his room, in the attic, and your whole family's always been so open and loving and supportive. He knew the way the Twins looked at each other and both he and she listened when Charlie talked about his Girls. He remembered the summer before he started school; with the Twins always talking about all the girls they'd kissed that year, their first. They knew that "each other" had been left unsaid. 

And so, it had seemed natural when she'd said, "I wonder what it's like to be kissed" and he'd answered back, "So do I" that night in his room – blue, back then – and so they'd tried it out, and fell asleep arms and legs and jammies and messy red hair all entwined, and the next morning their mom put it down to her nightmares, which she'd never, ever had, but she didn't tell mum that, because she'd had a feeling it'd make her uncomfortable. So she didn't tell mum how much she'd liked the feel of her brother's hair, or lips, and kept it innocently to herself except for him, because she went back and kissed him again, and that is not keeping it to herself.

And that fall he went away, and she'd met the BoyWhoLived, when all she'd thought about was him going away for the year and what would she do this time around, with no one at home but mum. And mum was all very well, but mum wasn't her brother, who was so attentive and who cared.

But, he did come back at the end of his time at school, and they had weeks where there were other brothers, of course, but other brothers don't really pay attention to them. And so days could be full of beaches lakes skies rooms chairs forts and, of course, kisses. Until the BoyWhoLived came back on the scene and she knew that she couldn't … act like that … with him and _her_ there, watching, which they would be. So she dropped glasses and toast and knew they said she loved him and didn't correct them, because if she told them that she thought the Boy could go jump in the lake for all it mattered, so long as she had nights alone in an orange room with him … she didn't think they'd appreciate it the way she did. The way he did. 

And he did, she knew. She visited him every night – but in the hall now, or the Boy would hear, and just before bedtime he kissed her and off she went, and the number of times he'd kissed her with that look in his eyes like she wasn't almost his twin, himself – or that she was, but not in the way she used to be - was swiftly reaching thousands.

And then she would be at school, and he had a gut feeling that Bad Things would Happen if anyone at school knew what was going on, and so the night before the year started, he snuck out of his orange and into her vague blue, and held her silently, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living …"[1] … which he realized too late wasn't silent, which she had already figured out. 

And when he'd cornered her on a secluded part of the train and told her they would stop at school, OK? And she nodded and found some other first-years in some compartment and he went back to his friends, and they asked him why he was so flushed and looked so close to tears, which they didn't record in the history books, because you don't record these things if you can help it.

So he tried not to look at her too much this year … and tried not to notice she was paler than he thought she should be, or that the translucence her skin gradually gained made her look so _good_. And he tried not to notice the Prefect put his arm around her in the way he knew he would, and he could see it, and he supposed it was OK because he just _couldn't_ right now, and he saw that she needed someone and though he really _wanted_ it to be him everything was just going so well right now and he couldn't have the others noticing anything was wrong with him, no, no.

But he didn't think it was – that – serious. And when he was told just who had been stolen, he died inside. He tried to put a good face on, but even then, he thought they could all tell something was wrong – _at least_, he thought, _they don't know how dead I am_. And so he and the BoyWhoLived went down, down, and he had to sit with That Git for ages and try not to sob, and he was very mean because he'd had all this fear and sadness, but he thought he was too sad for a brother, I mean, brothers wish their sisters would go away, not wish their sisters will be with them always. 

And she was actually having a nice time. She doesn't say so, not even to her brother, but she was. He was actually quite nice, caring – oh, she knew what he was doing, but she wasn't worried. She thought, _A half blood took him away, a Muggleborn and a half blood, and he pays no attention to me anymore, and he lets the Twins tease and Prefect is the only one who cares but who cares about him?_ And so, the green-eyed boy with ambitions she could never imagine was a nice rest. He held her – he was understanding. She knew, long before, what he was up to, and told him she would help him because the only boy she loved just didn't care anymore, and if only he would at least _pretend_ to love her for a while she wouldn't mind anything.

And he thought that was just as it should be, and not all of his tender sweet nothings meant nothing, and he held her while she faded away and kissed too-young lips and clung, because no one had ever loved him either, and neither had she, but she had at least been nice and understood him and not blinked at his ambitions and just wanted refuge from sadness, and that's all anyone wants, isn't it? And he wished she didn't have to die, and was hoping that kid would show so he could kill him instead, even though he knew she wouldn't really like that – and she had asked for her brother to be safe, and he'd never said anything, but he was really considering sparing that one person in thanks, because, no matter what everyone says, a sixteen year old boy is never heartless. Maybe a sixty-two year old freak of not-nature, but not a boy, and he knew he'd deal with that freak of not-nature as soon as was prudent. 

And the kid showed up with thoughts of duty and anger and innocence – trusting innocence, and he knew he almost had him, but, no – but as he faded away, he knew of two places he lived – the book was not really destroyed, and neither was the girl.

And when the brother saw her, his heart leapt, and when they were going up the pipes, he clutched at her hand and wished there was some way, some way to make it so he could hold more than her hand, and swearing to himself that the world could screw itself, so long as she would stay with him. Which is a very deep thought for a twelve-year-old, he thought. 

He held her non stop after that, for the rest of the time at school that year, and there were no exams to distract him, and she seemed pleased. She only talked in whispers about what happened to her, she said she hadn't been afraid, that she was fine, not to worry, she loved him, she kissed him when no one was looking, and he held her even closer, and very slowly, the brown warmth came back to her eyes and they lit up again, and they were soft – but he could see a yellow diamond glint in them all the time and knew that she was not eleven, any more than he was twelve, and every night that summer they clutched together when they could, tightly to the only other bit of warmth they had that mattered. 

  


* * *

[1] Robert N Munsch, _Love You Forever_


End file.
